


Invention

by Violetlyvanilla



Category: Good Omens, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canon fic, Crossover, Destiel - Freeform, Fluff, M/M, Pining, Time Travel, ineffable husbands, romance tropes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-31
Updated: 2019-08-31
Packaged: 2020-10-04 00:10:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20461823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Violetlyvanilla/pseuds/Violetlyvanilla
Summary: Aziraphale encounters a fellow angelic inventor. Castiel is a fearsome seraphim carrying out a mysterious personal mission. Crowley and Aziraphale attempt to track Castiel’s movements through time and learn to invent a few new things along the way. Afterall, desperation is the mother of invention.





	Invention

**Author's Note:**

> Written for destiel fresh hits July/August round with thanks to Saltnhalo for the prompt ‘history’. 
> 
> Last time I played my handicap was like 80, so with the roll over discount it is now 40.

Aziraphale had only ever met one other angel as inventive as himself and that was in the year 1491, abroad a ship bound for the Atlantic, where a rotten apple core left in the bottom of a sack was being carried to a bright new world. (The other most inventive creature being non other than the demon Crowley, who was technically no longer an angel, but Crowley thought it was all just office politics really.) Aziraphale flew on the winds and made sure the all important seed fell into a soil caked crevice of the hull and sprouted. All it took was a little kick in the right direction. To his surprise a panel of the decking crumpled in a sudden gale and a stream of sunlight beamed in right over the tiny plant. Aziraphale looked up to find another angel, in a tan coat flaring out fetchingly at the waist, staring at him with startled blue eyes. 

"Hello," he said a little awkwardly. 

Aziraphale cast about for something to say. The importation of the genius prunus, the common apple, was very important to the development of American cuisine and culture. Without which there would be no apple sauce, or Applejack, nor Johnny Appleseed. No apple bobbing on All Hallow's even. All of those things were critical but none more important than the invention of the Waldorf salad. Walnuts, watercress, blue cheese and of course green apple. It was going to be one of Crowley's favourites. As a principality, Aziraphale had some ability in premonitions. Impractically, all his foretellings were centred around food and the demon Crowley always starred in them. As if they were going to become close friends or something. 

"Are you here to oversee the cultivation of ..." Aziraphale began to say. 

"My name is Castiel," said the other angel, a Seraphim, no less. "And this is personal business." 

Aziraphale could not be more intrigued. A warrior angel on a mission of self-interest? That would be like a demon helping to save the world. Aziraphale coughed, he shouldn't dabble in prophetic meddling so much, it always gave him heartburn. 

"Which Principality are you?" Castiel asked after a moment of gazing at the small seedling which was growing miraculously fast. It would be a young sapling by the time the ship reached harbour, just mature enough for planting out in the frosty ground. 

"The East," Aziraphale said. "I was the Angel of the Eastern gates. I uh, haven't heard of an angel called Castiel." 

"You wouldn't," Castiel said. "I've been stationed on earth, with the humans." 

"As have I," Aziraphale echoed. 

"I am undercover," Castiel reiterated a little wearyly. 

Aziraphale opened his mouth to say that of course, so was he, except the steely look on Castiel's face made him shut his mouth mutely. Perhaps he had been less competent than Castiel at maintaining a low profile. Honestly, sometimes Aziraphale thought all the angels in heaven and on earth gossiped about the ramshackle state of disorganised chaos his very existence had become. It was difficult getting all your miracles done and all your intervening intervened while trying to enjoy all that humanity had to offer by way of aesthetic, gastronomic and hedonistic experience. Truth be told. 

"This variety will grow wild in Maine," Castiel said with a small smile that made Aziraphale's heart a little lighter. "One of its sports will be especially tart and holds its shape when cooked." 

Aziraphale wondered why an assassin of god would have an interest in stewed apples just as Castiel stretched out his four wings and took flight. Could have saved himself a trip, thought Aziraphale. Really, Crowley’s orders must have been mixed up somehow, even without Aziraphale carrying out this favour for his demon ally, the cider apple would have proliferated America. 

Three hundred years passed and Aziraphale had few occasion to return to America. Though after a particularly booze filled lunch with Crowley in the deep South exploring this new soul food business, Aziraphale did get turned around and had to make a stop in the midwest. The ground he landed upon was dusty and barren. The wind blew the dirt about and clearly there was nowhere for a decent drink or afternoon tea. Wishing he had stayed behind for the first mardi gras with Crowley, and getting a little indigestion at the thought of what Crowley was up to at that moment, Aziraphale found himself sitting down in the midst of a cactus patch lonesome and down. 

From the hazy horizon, a horse appeared with a rider upon it. The cowboy was hunched over the saddle, looking down carefully at the ground. When he pulled up next to Aziraphale, he tipped his hat. Which had the angel jumping out of his skin because he had made himself imperceptible to humans. 

The tanned face, white teeth and eyes older than time gave Aziraphale comfort. The dust encrusted trench coat recalled the name Castiel to Aziraphale's mind. 

"It must mean something if we keep meeting like this," Castiel said, taking out a shovel from the side of his saddle. Aziraphale had mistaken it for a shotgun at a distance. 

"What are you looking for? Gold? Silver?" Aziraphale said, bewildered as to why minerals would interest an angel like Castiel. Surely he was only playing at being a cowboy? 

"They are metals aren't they?" Castiel asked. 

Of course a principality was inferior in ranking to a seraphim, so his thoughts were hardly his own in Castiel's presence. Not that Aziraphale had anything to hide, not like lunch with Crowley was some big embarrassing secret. It was practically work, sussing out your enemy, keeping your friends close and your enemies closers and maybe buying them dessert when it was your turn. 

"I don't know, Crowley invented them," Aziraphale shrugged. "To tempt men and introduce the idea of Economics. A very demonic concept I'm told." 

"This is more precious than both," Castiel said, sinking his spade deep into the ground with a mighty plunge, the muscles on his upperarms swelling to fill up the roomy trenchcoat sleeves. 

Aziraphale stared, Castiel was a most powerful angel and a most unconventional one. On the material plane he was a man digging a hole, but interdimensionally all four of his wings were beating strongly (they looked strangely familiar) and his claws were pawing hard at the ground, the fire from his mouth melting the boulders beneath, all the way down to the small opening onto the great underground aquifer. 

The shovel came up with a load of damp sand. 

"You're digging a well," Aziraphale remarked. 

"Yes," Castiel said simply, bowing his head low and concentrating on his work. "Why are you here?" 

"I am lost," Aziraphale said. "I should get going, I'm expecting a delivery at my bookstore in Soho." 

"I understand," Castiel said. "See you later." 

Aziraphale was still thinking about the second encounter with Castiel a month later when Crowley finally returned from his sojourn in the American south. 

"He's a seraphim right," Crowley said as he dug into his Waldorf salad, grinning as the unorthodox flavours warred over his palate. "So when he says see you later he means it." 

Aziraphale blinked at his suave counterpart. "You mean he has better foretelling than me?" 

"Oh its not foretelling if you just know it," Crowley said blithely, browsing through the wine menu for something sweet and strong. 

"Is it ..." Aziraphale searched his vocabulary. "Foreknowing?" 

Crowley laughed. "I would hardly play on semantics with you angel." 

Which earned them a glance from the Sommlier who immediately suggested several vintages 'suitable for anniversaries'. 

"The place you got turned around in, where he was digging that well, let's go there," Crowley suggested. 

"Now?" Aziraphale asked, bewildered. 

"Not now," Crowley knitted his brows, his pale blue eyes sparkling as he interlaced his fingers. The demon was thinking hard. "We have to go when it is later." 

"And when is that?" 

"Well, Watson, if we don't know when but we do know where, what could two supernatural creatures of immortal disposition and infinite patience do?" 

"This is not the time to quote popular contemporary detective novels," Aziraphale frowned. "That whole genre is accursedly derivative yet addictive, it is the very work of ..." 

Crowley was beaming now, his eyes crinkling up as he lapped at his red wine. He bowed, roses in his cheeks, when Aziraphale stared wide eyed at him. 

"Yours truly," Crowley admitted. 

"Damn it, I knew I was right to prohibit them from my shop," Aziraphale cried. "Derivative drivel unfit for public consumption." 

"Oh that explains why you have Hound of the Baskerville in your bedside drawer, hidden beneath the box of Fine Selection of Chocolates." 

Aziraphale bristled, gulping his Scotch. "I was curious ... as to the development of that peculiar friendship between Doctor Watson and Mr Holmes." 

"I have some manuscripts withheld by the publisher which will clear things up," Crowley waggled his eyebrows suggestively. "If you have any interest in that regard?" 

Aziraphale moaned, what a temptation, a hitherto unseen addition to the most popular series of the day? How could any book-lover resist that? 

"Let me near your bedside again angel," Crowley whispered into Aziraphale's ear, his breath cold with fire and hot with life. "And I promise ... revelations." 

Thoughts of the seraphim evaporated like mist in the desert. Aziraphale was to forget about their conversation completely, except as preceding that strange languid unforgettable afternoon in his flat above the bookshop filled up on spirits and food and in the most enjoyable of company. 

Crowley had long foresworn to take off the year 1969 as time-off-in-lieu. 

"Sabbatical time," he drawled, arm dangling out of the window of his latest material acquirement, a Bentley automobile fresh out of the innovative garage embodying human ingenuity and reckless faith in the power of seatbelts when mounted inside engines of doom. "No food in the car, this baby's a keeper." 

Aziraphale tucked the pastry inside its tin and stowed it away for later. They drove to the harbour where the Bentley was wrenched onto the deck of a monstrously large cruise ship. They embarked on a lovely time of eating and dancing and eating again but poolside and Crowley invented the Conga while Aziraphale came up with the swim-up bar. 

When they touched shore again, Aziraphale had to exchange his waist coat for the comfort of a Henley given all the fine food and wine they had indulged in along the way. The location Crowley drove them to was somehow familiar, though Aziraphale was sure he had never seen this town in all his existence. 

When they walked to the town centre and saw the fountain it all made sense. There he was a cowboy with angel wings cast in bronze, holding a shovel with water sprouting out of the tip. 

Angel Springs was an oasis in the desert founded when a natural water well was discovered by a lonesome unnamed cowboy traversing the lands. The town name paid homage to the miraculous discovery and the statue in the square paid tribute to cheap artistic imagination doing work paid for in beers. Or perhaps it was universally omniscient genius. It was always hard to tell the two apart in Aziraphale's experience. 

Crowley took Aziraphale out of the town, the Bentley driving with demonic aided elegance over the potholed roads then eventually on pure unforgiving desert. There was nothing but a wide road bisecting the land where they stopped. 

"Home sweet home," Crowley said stretching out his arms wide. "For the next decade or so." 

Aziraphale took out the tin from his jacket pocket, the pastry inside miraculously still as fresh as the afternoon when he stepped foot into Crowley's Bentley. The tin was charmed, a little present from Crowley once upon a time. 

"Not much to do here," Aziraphel said, munching down on buttery flakey pastry and sour sweet apple filling. 

"It'll be hectic," Crowley said brightly. "Once the shop opens. I'll work the coffee and maintenance and you can be the pastry chef. You can make that. It'll sell like, like ... hot cakes." 

"I'm not sure if hot cakes were really indicative of my abilities, that was just a stroke of luck, it was very cold and no one had thought of a flat cake yet ..." Aziraphale made modest politely but he had been very proud of that invention. "Apple strudel might not be to the American taste." 

"Oh don't worry about that, we'll have a renaming," Crowley exclaimed. "No, that's not the word, re-branding! Like a brand, hot and permanent, we're gonna spread apple pastry all over the American consciousness make it so synonomous with these United States that people will say it is as American as Apple ... Apple Pots, no, Apple Pie! That's it, apple pie!" 

To keep their superiors off their backs, Crowley had to deliver something to counter the immediate success of apple pie. So he invented the Americano. A bitter sour drink of over strained black coffee stewed for an eternity in the purgatory of a reheated jug known as a 'dripper'. Thus the scales were balanced and Aziraphale and Crowley opened up their cafe of sorts by the side of the road near Angel Springs. They served breakfast until it was noon, then a dinner which could be had around the clock and always the Americano was topped up by a helpful waiteress in a black dress with fiercely red hair, so that the misery of the brew was truly bottomless. While the pastry chef, clearly from foreign parts, drank tea daintily from a porcelain cup, watching the apple pies bake in the oven. 

For ten years, Aziraphale and Crowley enjoyed their little break, eventually renaming the enterprise as a 'diner'. It was certainly no fine dining experience but it was just a little bit magically cosy enough to lure in every weary traveller along the endless highway. 

By the early 70s, London was swinging and Crowley was tempted back to its fold. Aziraphale reopened his shop and altogether forgot to ask Crowley what was the point of that decade of running a diner in America. He had had such a great holiday, it seemed rude to ask Crowley for more elucidation as to his schemes with regard to it. Maybe all Crowley wanted some some down time like he said, to spend a while with his great foe and friend. 

Aziraphale should have known the demon was more wiley than that. 

"I got him!" Crowley called out, elbowing his way through the door, startling away the customer when his eyes blazed with excitement. 

"Thank goodness, thought he'd never leave, asked me for a price list! Fondled the books, attempted to buy one of the hand painted watercolour bookmarks by the register," Aziraphale said, affronted. "Now who did you get and what is that to me?" 

"Castiel," Crowley crowed triumphantly, slamming a great big book onto the counter. 

Even for a bibliophile, Aziraphale was impressed by the volume laid out in front of him. It was made during the Renaissance, it had illuminated pages, beautifully coloured. Every page filled with writing and stories of the deeds of Castielle The Rebbell Angel. The writing was fervent and the writer was clearly enamoured with its subject. The drawings of Castiel were not altogether very convincing except for one which depicted the angel passing a plate full of fruit to a young maiden herding goats. 

"The fruits that the goats ingested made them wild," Crowley said. "In their excitement they became extremely willing to copulate. I do believe that the indiscriminate promiscuity of the goats later influenced medieval thinking and gave way to the envisioning of the deity Pan. I have no idea why Castiel decided to perform the miracle of horny Caprinae." 

"You've been keeping tabs on him," Crowley realised. "This book has new pages, typed pages, you've been adding to it!" 

"Yes," Crowley smiled. "Except I stopped several years ago, what's the point when another greater author is already writing about him? I give you Carver Edlund." 

The covers of the paperbacks Crowley pulled out of thin air were tawdry to say the least. Inaccurate in every aspect. Yet the words inside rang with gospel truth in Aziraphale's head as he leafed through them, reading at superhuman speed while Crowley boiled the kettle and made himself a cup of Irish Breakfast. The callousness of drinking that for afternoon tea did not stir any comments of ire from Aziraphale for once. 

"I do say!" was all Aziraphale could exclaim when he finished reading the Supernatural books. 

"And that gives us when," Crowley grinned. "And we already know where, because we created it." 

The thing about Seraphims that Aziraphale had forgotten and which Crowley had implied was that they were the highest class of angels outside of the host. They were warriors, close to god and in many ways unstoppable. They did not foresee things, they could time travel. They went back and forth, any time, anywhere, and were inescapable for those they hunted down. Castiel was not hunting though, he was not travelling through time for anything so simple. 

"Or it could be very simple indeed," Crowley rubbed his hands together. "I've played the long game Watson and now it is time to find out the truth of it in its entirety." 

"I could be Holmes," Aziraphale said all of a sudden. It was something that had troubled him for decades, ever since the pseudonym A.C. Doyle appeared. "Watson is so much less ...." 

"Less?" Crowley was taken aback. "Watson is the best of them, the sweetest man, has the most fortitude, loyalty, trust. He is everything Holmes cannot be, he is Holmes' tie to humanity." 

"Oh," Aziraphale opened his mouth. "Oh, all right." 

Fortunately Crowley was too ready, had waited too long, for this moment to drag it out any further. "Come on angel," he said and clicked his fingers and they were both immediately inside a roadside diner in the middle of America. 

The booth they occupied faced the door and already there were cherry pies laid out in front of them with two mugs full of infernal Americano. 

"I ordered ahead," said Crowely. "Try the cherry, I think its a wicked improvement."

It was indeed very good and half way through the second slice, a black noisy car pulled into the parking lot and took up the spot right next to the vintage Bentley that was parked in front of their window. Three men came out, the tall one headed straight for the bathroom, while the driver and the passenger walked into the diner. 

The man in the lead was handsome in a roguish way, with short shorn hair and eyes the colour of unripened fruit. His companion was the angel Castiel who was speaking in grave tones. 

"I did not miracle away the gas in the tank, Dean, you simply forgot to fuel up," he said with a hint of anger. "And no this is not an elaborate ploy to get you to celebrate your fortieth birthday. I had nothing to do with this. It is just coincidence that the best pie in America according to Gourmet Traveller is available in this diner." 

Dean picked out the booth right next to Aziraphale's and sat down, so that his face was clearly visible but Castiel had his back to them. Whether the angel had sensed their presence was doubtful. Aziraphale certainly got a weird reading from him, he felt almost human, barely angelic at all. He nudged Crowley's foot under the table and the demon scented the air with his forked tongue subtly and shook his head. Aziraphale dared a peek at Castiel in the multiverse and sure enough the wings were gone and Castiel was a bare whisper outside of the earthly dimensions. It was strange and devastating to see him so depleted in the other sphere and then return to read the vivid life and passion in every line of his being as a human. Castiel hunched in the booth, his hands wrapped around a coffee cup. Aziraphale saw the way the human Dean was looking at Castiel, it was hard to read but very vivid nonetheless. Castiel looked alive, more alive and real than he ever had been as an almost all powerful seraphim. His loss of grace only amplified his humanity. 

"Gotta tell ya Cas, I don't buy it," Dean leaned forward, stealing the cup out of Castiel's hands and taking a long sip. The way his eyes lit up as he smiled at Castiel made Aziraphale gasp. "Seems convenient to make a pit stop here. Is this a set up, Sam in on this? That why he's disappeared?" 

"I believe he is vacating his morning salad," Castiel said seriously. "To make room for the lunch salad. Sam likes salads, you know that." 

Dean nodded, still grinning. "Just you and me then, for a while, how about that." 

Castiel said nothing. When the waiter came they placed their order. Castiel muttered something darkly. 

"You didn't order the apple pie," Castiel said with gruff menace. 

"Watching my figure," Dean said playfully. 

"I watch your figure enough for both of us," Castiel said. "If by figure you mean your material body, which is vulnerable and you are entirely reckless with it. It is forty years since your conception and you must do all you can to make it last forty and more." 

"Wow, okay, don't talk about a guy's conception on his birthday, like the maths doesn't even figure," Dean lifted his hands placatingly. "I get it, you care about me, I mean its not like I don't care about you back." 

From where Aziraphale was seated he could see Castiel slowly tilting his head to the side as he tried to digest that sentence. 

"That's nice Dean, the not not caring," he said at last. 

"Well, figures right, dude and his angel, slice of pie, cup of jo, this is heaven for one Dean Winchester," said Dean, grabbing Castiel's hand around the mug again. Drinking deep. 

Aziraphale could see, in the multiverse, four wings sparkle back to life, shuddering in an invisible place. 

"Then it's all worth it." 

That was all Castiel said. 

"Fuck," Aziraphale very rarely swore. When he did, he preferred terms like darn or oopsy or ooopsydaisy for dire situations. When Aziraphale said fuck, it was worth listening to, Crowley knew that much. "It's him!" 

"Pardon?" Crowley leaned in close so that Aziraphale could whisper into his ear. The faux leather of the booth seat was warm from the sun but Aziraphale was warmer. 

"He's that angel, the one I chased out of the garden with my flaming sword!" 

"What?" Crowley hissed. "What are you talking about dearest angel." 

"Before you were Crowley, when Crawley was just a beautiful damned creature roaming the garden ..." 

"...oh yes you used to leave puddles for me to drink when you watered the tree of knowledge." 

"...shush I'm trying to tell you a story. In the beginning, the very one, there was an angel who broke into the garden of Eden and stole a single sapling. Not a branch of the tree of knowledge, a random weed really that grew near it. It bore fruit that was not so good to eat and I was planning on removing it. The angel broke in, ran off with it and got chased by me. I remember the wings, all four of them, gold and blue and black. Castiel's wings. Do you know what he stole? He named it after, he invented it. Coffee!" 

Crowley stared at the bitter brew in front of his nose, going a little cross eyed. 

"Castiel invented coffee, he spread the seeds by giving the fruit to the goat herder, he grew the American cider apple, so it would in due time sport the dessert apple, he made this town by finding the well, he led us here to open this diner because he kept bumping into me and you are my friend and you got curious. And all this ... all this!" 

"Thanks Cas," Dean said, stretching his arms out behind his head, basking in the warm afternoon sun, his stomach full of apple pie and black coffee and feeling for once content. "Best birthday ever." 

They couldn't see Castiel's face but judging by the way his shoulders eased it was plain that he was smiling back at Dean. 

It was a quick meal, nothing extraordinary happened whatsoever. Except perhaps for anyone who knew Dean Winchester, it was the most extraordinary moment of unguarded happiness. 

Crowley sighed when the three men left in their noisy car. He had made his Bentley appear in the parking lot earlier, somehow he had anticipated the burgeoning desire for a road trip with Aziraphale. Afterall, the sort of life they led was full of surprises and the apocalypse was always happening somewhere. It was time for a holiday again. 

"Penny for your thought angel," Crowley said. 

"I think I've invented something," Aziraphale said in a far away voice, watching the Impala speed away in a trail of dust and calamity. "I saw it in Castiel's grace. Its kind of exquisite and endless. It's the most powerful and powerless all at once. I think I'll call it yearning. Castiel yearns for Dean." 

"Oh no angel, that one can't be your's," Crowley gave a wane little laugh. "I invented it a long time before you." 

"What?" Aziraphale was surprised. 

"Oh yes, I call it longing," Crowley said. "Sorry sweetheart that one's ours, pointless suffering and hopeless devotion. That's not a good thing. It can only be evil." 

"Nothing good is truly evil," Aziraphale said looking at Crowley. "But you can have it if you thought of it first." 

Crowley nodded graciously. "Thank you dear." 

They stood to leave. 

"Roadtrip?" Crowley asked. 

"Thought you'd never ask," Aziraphale answered. 

He let Crowley drive for a while in that fast unruly way of his that Aziraphale secretly liked. He liked going fast, provided Crowley was at the wheel, it would always be an adventure. He never asked awkward questions when Crowley had his hands on the wheel and that glint in his eyes. 

Questions like just exactly when did Crowley long for something so badly that he invented the notion of longing? And what and who did he long for? 

Dean stared at the road, his eyes clouding till it was absolutely necessary to pull over. The motel sign had bloomed like a neon flower in his blurred vision. 

"Are you alright?" Castiel asked. 

"Yeah, Cas, I'm good," Dean said gesturing to the motel doorway. "Come on in." 

The room was smaller than the double Dean usually got, with the twin beds one for himself and one for his brother Sam, the couch for Castiel. This room only had one bed. Sam got a different room. Castiel looked around, he opened a cupboard, perhaps wondering if a couch was hiding inside it. Dean smiled at the sight of his angel wandering around the tiny room with just a bed, a television and an ensuite. 

"Let's watch some TV," Dean said, flicking on the streaming channels, clicking on Good Omens. That sounded cheery enough. 

"Yes," Castiel said, stiffly sitting down on the foot of the bed, face pointed towards the screen, hands in on knees. 

"Don't be nervous, we're just chilling," Dean said softly. "Scoot on up here."

Pat, pat, on the pillow next to him. 

Castiel scrambled backwards, volumous jacket susurrating agains the blankets. Dean was already beneath the coverlets but Castiel laid in all his layers on top of everything. Frozen and staring at the flickering screen. 

"Tell me if I'm coming on too strongly okay bud," Dean sighed and flicked off the TV. The room plunged into the darkness. "Cas, I'm just gonna sit here in the dark till you wanna you know not just sit here in the dark." 

"The TV's off," Castiel said, almost a whine, very soft, very uncertain. 

"Yeah, I know," Dean said reassuringly. 

"Is ... is this the part where we talk," Castiel said after a minute's silence. "I'm not sure what to say." 

"I know you do things for me, like today, like going out of your way to gimme a birthday," Dean said. 

"It's nothing, the diner was there, we drove in," Castiel stuttered. 

"Yeah okay or this could be the part where we kiss," Dean said exasperatedly. "If you're not gonna admit to doing anything when all you've done the last decade or so is be there for me then talking is a just a waste of breath and I wanna be kissing." 

Castiel felt the stab in his chest then. The sudden caving in of all the years and the history and time before even those things existed. The sharp pang of longing/yearning melting away into something as fresh and succouring as a spring. 

"I want to kiss too, Dean." 

The End.


End file.
